


it's the end of the world, as we know it

by frozensight



Series: a whole new world (literally) [15]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozensight/pseuds/frozensight
Summary: If he has to choose his favorite thing about the end of the world, Napoleon would have to go with the refreshing lack of CIA oversight--or government in general. It's funny how when the world is ending, resident art thieves/con-men are no longer valuable. It takes minutes for him to be left behind after the first wave hit, with orders to 'stay put' until the 'trouble has passed.'Thing is, the trouble doesn't pass, and Napoleon is notoriously bad at following direct orders.





	

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: being reunited after surviving the apocalypse unknowing if the other was alive or dead AU
> 
> notes: timeline-wise it's probably like, the late 60s, early 70s. as for what kind of apocalypse, even i'm not really sure. probably a disease, but not a zombie-fying one.

If he has to choose his favorite thing about the end of the world, Napoleon would have to go with the refreshing lack of CIA oversight--or government in general. It's funny how when the world is ending, resident art thieves/con-men are no longer valuable. It takes minutes for him to be left behind after the first wave hit, with orders to 'stay put' until the 'trouble has passed.'

Thing is, the trouble doesn't pass, and Napoleon is notoriously bad at following direct orders.

On the flip side, if pressed about his least favorite thing in regards to the apocalypse, he'd have to go with boredom. Sure, the millions of deaths is awful and tragic, but also completely irrelevant to Napoleon's direct well-being. As long as he finds access to food, the occasional companion, and a soft bed to sleep in, Napoleon Solo knows he will handsomely survive the End Times _and_ come out the other side, ready for whatever comes next.

What he hasn't anticipated, however, is the overwhelming lack of daily entertainment. Books are swell, but sometimes he needs more stimulation. Television is right out--the national power grids fell weeks ago--so that leaves human entertainment and stealing. Sex, while quite possibly _better_ at the end of everything, also comes with a rather elevated level of baggage from Napoleon's partners. He'll find them, sleep with them, and then fully intend to disappear like a ghost. After the third time he is nearly shot while almost being held hostage, Napoleon comes to the conclusion that one night stands simply don't work during the apocalypse. It's a damn shame, he thinks, surveying the condo in Vegas that he's commandeered, he rather liked the sex.

Once he realizes regular sex is more trouble than it's worth, Napoleon reverts to old habits--in this case, stealing for kicks. His mother had always called him 'her little magpie,' a gatherer of all things shiny, and his new rent-free abode displays that. It's full of stolen jewels, art, and other expensive, formerly well-protected items, and all of it belongs to Napoleon now because there is no semblance of law enforcement anymore to make him give it back. And there, right there, is the biggest problem Napoleon has with his favorite hobby--no law enforcement.

Normally, this would be a godsend--no repercussions? wonderful!--but as Napoleon has found, no police coupled with no alarms to bypass and hardly ever any guards, has led to stealing becoming less and less of a challenge. Rather, it's so easy now that Napoleon has to actually _need_ something before he even thinks about stealing it. He finds himself on several occasions waxing nostalgic about old heists where he had almost been caught, remembering the adrenaline and the sheer pleasure of getting away last minute.

These days, Napoleon sits in a chair on the roof of his building--and it is his, as no one comes to Vegas at the end of the world--and stares out over the city and the surrounding desert. Sometimes there's a dust cloud in the distance; sometimes it gets close, about the outskirts of the city. Napoleon figures it's people looking for fuel, and that once they fill up, they leave.

He snorts to himself. Normal people avoid Vegas for fear of criminals, and criminals avoid Vegas for fear of other criminals. The only criminal in Vegas is Napoleon and maybe some of the rats, who have stolen cheese from hotel kitchens.

_____

It's two months post-apocalypse--and three weeks since he's encountered another human--that Napoleon gets a visitor in his building.

At first he thinks it's just the rats or coyotes or whatever animals have decided that cities are there for the retaking--it wouldn't be the first time he'd have to scare off a raccoon from his doorstep--but then he hears doors being opened and freezes, his hand halfway to one of the many guns he's acquired over the course of his time in Vegas. Animals, in his experience, can't open doors, at least not with the regularity he's hearing. They also don't tend to wear boots. Or talk to themselves. Grabbing the gun and aiming it at his own front door, Napoleon--annoyed but resigned--stands ready to defend his home. (Funny that it _is_ his home now, a thing he never really saw himself having ever after the war, but has now, at the end of it all.)

The door slams open. Napoleon cocks the gun, his finger ready on the trigger at the sight of a gun being pointed back at him, when, for the second time that year, the world seems to stop.

" _Peril_?" " _Solo_?"

They lower their guns simultaneously, the shock at seeing one another after all this time causing their guard to drop. Kuryakin looks much the same as what Napoleon remembers, just perhaps with a bit more facial hair than he's used to, but it's honestly not a bad look for him--adds to that whole Russian bear aesthetic of his.

"Well, can't say I ever expected to see _you_ again."

"I can say the same of you." Kuryakin gestures with his gun to the apartment. "You live here?"

"Yes, for the past few weeks or so, this quaint abode has been mine."

Kuryakin snorts, taking a few more steps into the entryway. "Quaint is not word I would use to describe anything to do with you."

Napoleon replaces the shotgun he'd picked up to its place, candidly walking away from Kuryakin. "You say the sweetest things, Peril. Want a drink?"

"Do you have water?"

He laughs. "Do I have water? Oh Peril, what do you take me for? Of course I do. I can even get you ice."

"Just water."

"Suit yourself." Pulling a water bottle out of the fridge, Napoleon only has to turn around to see that Kuryakin has followed him into the kitchen, his eyes roving around, clearly marveling at all that Napoleon has amassed. "Here. There's more if you need it."

Practically snatching the bottle out of his hand, Kuryakin drinks the entire bottle in less than a minute. Napoleon dimly remembers that he is, in fact, in the middle of a desert, and that probably not everyone has been keen with finding resources like he has. He watches Kuryakin for a moment, before he recalls what he'd been about to do when interrupted.

"I don't suppose you're hungry, Peril?"

"Am I hungry?" Meeting his eyes, Kuryakin fixes Napoleon with an intense stare, that tries to speak of all the things he's been through since everything went to shit. "My last meal was cactus."

Napoleon winces in sympathy. "Rough luck. Would you prefer chicken or pork?"

"You have meat? _Real_ meat?"

"Of course I do. The shower's also working still if you'd like to rid yourself of sand."

Kuryakin's eyes widen a fraction. "You still have running water?"

He shrugs. "It took some finagling, but yes. It helps that there's virtually no one else in the whole city to poach from me." Napoleon grins at Kuryakin. "Well, there _was_ virtually no one else. Anyway, go ahead and freshen up. I'll start cooking. You look like you could do with a good meal or two."

The words had barely finished leaving his mouth before Kuryakin walks out of the kitchen, clearly on a mission to find the promised bathroom. Watching him leave, Napoleon is immensely grateful that the CIA had left him in Los Angeles, not in New York City with U.N.C.L.E., and that he's spent more time in apocalyptic comfort than roaming the abandoned countryside.

_____

The food is ready before Napoleon sees Kuryakin again, in what is the longest shower he's ever known the KGB agent to take as he's usually a more in and out kind of guy. Kuryakin's hair is still fairly damp when he sits down at the table, his face freshly shaved, and Napoleon muses that perhaps even Kuryakin has missed some of the human comforts he'd grown accustomed to as part of U.N.C.L.E.

"So how did you end up here of all places?" asks Napoleon as he doles out the meal he made--pork chops with broccoli and diced potatoes.

"Walked mostly. Drove some when I could find a vehicle with petrol. New York City is now cesspool, and I figured heading west was best way to return to Soviet soil."

Napoleon couldn't stop himself from gaping slightly, but does manage to erase it from his face quickly. "I'm sorry, but how exactly do you plan to get across the Pacific? Electricity is in short supply these days, in case you hadn't noticed."

Kuryakin raises an eyebrow at him, gesturing around to the apartment with his fork. "You seem to have it just fine."

"Yes, but what you don't realize is that the generator cuts out precisely at 6pm every night to conserve it's life because it's not immortal. With rationed use, it'll last for perhaps a year with just me using it. The water is less certain because in case you didn't realize, this is a desert, and who knows how long _that'll_ last, even with just a handful of people using it." Napoleon sighs, suddenly tired despite having done nothing but play chess against himself all day. "Don't even get me started on food. It's only a matter of time before I have to switch to a strict canned food diet which will most likely happen sooner rather than later because, as I said, this is the _desert_. And despite what you say, Peril, I am not actually a cowboy, and do not enjoy eating foods with gratuitous preservatives."

Silence falls over them besides the sound of forks clinking on plates, and well, thinks Napoleon, that was more than he meant to say.

"Surely you do not intend to stay in this city forever?" asks Kuryakin after a moment, his eyes still on his food.

"Why shouldn't I? No one else has bothered me here except you, and until I run out of supplies, I don't really see a reason to leave."

"This place is nice, yes." Kuryakin glances around at the room--priceless works of art hanging on the wall, off-setting expensive (and still new looking) furniture everywhere he looks. "Very _you_ really, but what purpose do these things have now besides taking up space and giving fleeting comfort?"

Napoleon huffs, leaning an elbow on the table and wagging his fork at Kuryakin. "I'll have you know, I worked very hard to gather these things, Peril."

"How hard can it be to steal from people who no longer care?" He's right, so Napoleon tactfully says nothing. Kuryakin grins and adds, "As I thought. Crossing countryside is harder work, and yet you expect praise for swiping forgotten valuables from people whose security no longer works. Your pride is eighth wonder of the world, Solo. Too bad no one is left to appreciate it."

"At least I'm not the fool who has crossed the damn continent for nothing, trying to get to a country that doesn't even want him back." It's a low blow, he knows, but damnit if Kuryakin doesn't bring out the worst in him sometimes.

Kuryakin straightens for a moment, his hand gripping his fork tightly--so much so that Napoleon briefly fears he's going to bend it like one of those psychics he used to hear about as a kid. Eventually, he sets the fork down on his plate--mostly empty, a few stalks of broccoli left--and says, "Better to try and return to my people, to help rebuild my home, than to nest in someone else's like a cuckoo bird." He stands up from the table, inclining his head slightly. "Thank you for your hospitality. I believe I will now be on my way."

He should let him leave, thinks Napoleon. Kuryakin'll only get in the way and use up the few resources he has a lot faster than if he continues on his own. He's done just fine so far, hasn't he? Napoleon looks around his home, and it's like he's seeing it for the first time.

It's filled with meaningless trinkets--things that might've been worth something before, but are worthless now outside of vague sentimental value. The only good things about this place is his access to electricity (limited), food (limited), and water (limited). It's been three weeks since Napoleon last ventured far enough away from his base to find another human, and if he's honest, he can't remember a single thing he's done worth mentioning since.

"Wait," calls out Napoleon, surprising himself by rising to his feet. Kuryakin freezes, a couple feet from the door, his head turned over his shoulder to look at Napoleon. He sighs and continues, "Perhaps--though it pains me to say as much-- _perhaps_ you have a point." Napoleon gestures around at his home. "All this is just proof of an old habit dying hard, but what else would you have me do? There's no war for us to spy on anymore. There's no U.N.C.L.E., no CIA--hell, I'd wager to say even America probably doesn't really exist anymore. There's no place for a man like me."

"You're right, there isn't." Napoleon frowns. He doesn't expect to be agreed with, and it stings more than he likes. Kuryakin carries on as if he doesn't notice. "Therefore, you must become a _different_ man--one who is capable of living a real life in this new world."

Napoleon scoffs. "A real life? What kind of real life could anyone possibly have now? There's nothing _real_ left in this world. It all died two months ago."

"I thought so too this morning. I thought that maybe I was simply in a terrible dream and could not wake up, that I was perhaps in coma after a mission. I thought that I would die in my sleep, never waking up from this hell I found myself walking through day after day." Kuryakin, the monster, has the nerve to _grin_ at Napoleon. "Do you know how I know there are real things left to fight for, Solo?"

"I believe you're going to tell me regardless of what I say."

Kuryakin walks back to Napoleon, locking eyes with him with such intensity that Napoleon tenses, fearing that maybe the Russian has finally snapped and is going to kill him once and for all, but all he does is reach out and grip Napoleon's neck, practically cradling his head in his hand.

"I know, Solo," begins Kuryakin, continuing to hold Napoleon's head, but maintaining a foot's distance between them, "because not even in my most horrific nightmare would I find myself in a place where I willingly asked for your help to survive, and yet here I am."

Napoleon snorts. "I am somehow both offended and touched, Peril."

"Good." Kuryakin removes his hand from Napoleon's neck only to smack him gently on the cheek. "Means you are still annoying cowboy I have come to know."

Napoleon rolls his eyes before he looks over at the clock perched on top of his bookcase of pilfered classics. "As lovely as this little heart to heart has been, I regret to inform you that we only have half an hour left of electricity for the day."

"Understood," says Kuryakin.

They both sit back down at the table, as if nothing had happened, and finish what is left of their meals. Any further decisions about the future, Napoleon reasons, can wait until tomorrow.

His mother always said he did better with with a new day and a fresh cup of coffee anyway.


End file.
